


Leather

by Jenye



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Age Difference, F/M, Past Relationship(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-21
Updated: 2015-06-21
Packaged: 2018-04-05 11:33:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4178208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jenye/pseuds/Jenye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His fingers are worked to the bone and the calloused digits tell stories of the countless hours he slaves to help support his family.  The purple hues beneath his eyes only seem to enhance their mesmerizing blue shade.  His blond curls never look entirely clean and his fair skin wears a pink tint beneath the thin layer of dirt he always accumulates.  He had been sixteen when he took this job almost three years ago and now he looks every bit of a man nearing his thirties.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Leather

**Author's Note:**

> My entry for the amazing cause, S2SL! Hope you enjoy. Thank you to all the amazing authors and artists who contributed this year! Trust me, mine is the very worst of this collection, so if you see other submissions floating around READ THEM! You won't regret a second of it!

His fingers are worked to the bone and the calloused digits tell stories of the countless hours he slaves to help support his family. The purple hues beneath his eyes only seem to enhance their mesmerizing blue shade.  His blond curls never look entirely clean and his fair skin wears a pink tint beneath the thin layer of dirt he always accumulates. He had been sixteen when he took this job almost three years ago and now he looks every bit of a man nearing his thirties. 

 

The youngest of three with the weight of the world resting atop his shoulders; you’d pity him if it weren’t for the forever optimistic attitude he has.

 

Instead you see him and feel nothing but guilt. Guilt because you’ve always had much more than this poor boy ever has and yet your outlook on the world isn’t even half as bright as his.  He sees the glass half-full in a district full of emptiness and there are days you struggle to simply get out of bed.  His first instinct is to smile and expect the best of people and you’re still holding a grudge against your neighbor who allowed their terror of a pet to eat all of Prim’s herbs several summers ago. 

 

Peeta Mellark has known nothing but struggle and heartache his entire life and you’ve barely suffered more than an uncomfortable existence.  He lost his father before he was even a year old and his oldest brother was reaped at the age of fifteen.  District Twelve didn’t have a victor that year.  You watched easily from your home as another Seam child fell to the massacre of the arena and Peeta probably sat at home in tears, not fully understanding what was happening.

 

It’s not that you’re a heartless person. You can’t stand the games and all the havoc they cause; the innocent blood that sheds every year so the Capitol can continue their suffocating hold.  You’ve always been the first to speak out — in the proper company — against the horrors of the Capitol.  You and your late-husband were both that way.  Gale was more boisterous than you could ever dream to be about the topic. His anger would practically ooze from his pores when he’d spit venom about the Capitol. 

 

But your suffering due to the Capitol’s hold has always been secondhand.  Your daily meals have never come into question as to whether or not they’ll be there. You’ve never felt the air being taken out of your lungs as your brother’s lifeless body is seen in recap after recap of the Games.  Your mother has not turned into a destructive shell of herself that can only afford to have her remaining children become her punch bags.

 

Your life isn’t perfect, but it could be whole hell of a lot worse.

 

Peeta unintentionally and silently reminds you of that daily.  Your old self would probably despise him for that fact alone, because facing up to your weaknesses has never been your strongest suit.  But you’re older now and have unfortunately faced your own version of tragedy. And you’ve realized that shutting yourself off to your flaws is only hindering yourself.

 

You lost your husband last year and sure, it could always be worse.  But it doesn’t mean that your heartache wasn’t real and practically unbearable. Gale had been your best friend long before he had been your husband and even if the passion you always craved wasn’t there it doesn’t mean you didn’t treasure him entirely.

 

When Gale got sick you all but prayed to a god you’re not even sure exists.  You swore you’d never again crave the fire you saw glimpses of in other relationships. You would be content with a steady hand to hold.  You would be thankful for the comfortable silences you share.  You would even consider giving him the child he’d desired for so long.  You’d give up almost anything, if he’d just get better.

 

He never did.  And you sunk deeper into yourself.

 

Even Prim had a hard time pulling you back. For the first few weeks you refused to leave your house.  Normal living seemed like a foreign concept.  You remember people stopping by to visit.  Most of them use the pretense of dropping off food, but really they want nothing more than fuel to feed their gossip fires.  They can’t speculate on how you’re doing if they never see you. You wonder if the Seam is as full of gossip.  If not you’d consider moving there.  Maybe no one will recognize you as “Hawthorne’s widow”. 

 

Not likely. 

 

District Twelve may be obviously split up into two types of citizens, but it’s still a small place and most people know everyone else’s business.  It’s nearly incest, you admit on your more bitter days. 

 

And everything and everyone seem to sicken you to the point of nausea.  You’re losing all hope for humanity until that fateful Thursday afternoon — you’ll never forget it: the commanding knock on the door that causes instant irritation in your blood. You stomp to the door ready to tell the person on the other end just how much you don’t appreciate their lousy food or their fictional act of kindness. 

 

But when you see his lopsided smile your cold exterior starts to thaw.  He’s there to inform you about how Gale’s — well, now _your_ — business has been running.  His hands are overflowing with loose pieces of paper and the familiar binder you — well, Gale — would keep all the accounting information in.  His usual mop of curls is brushed back, his skin looks almost like porcelain and it hits you then that he must have bathed before coming to your door. 

 

You know what he looks like after a full day inside Hawthorne’s Leathers and this isn’t it. 

 

In fact, you’re only partially ashamed to admit you know _exactly_ what he looks like after a day of hard labor because you’ve taken note of it — in detail. The way a thin layer of sweat gathers atop his forehead.  The way his tiny hairs stick to the back of his neck while he stands close to one of the wood ovens.  How the muscles beneath his thin shirt strain against the material and how it makes your stomach drops into a delicious burn. 

 

You should be ashamed.  Not only are — _were_ — you married, but you are nearly ten years his senior.

 

And then he’s at your door doing the right thing: his job.  In fact, he’s going above and beyond.  So you let him in and you two discuss the business.  He’s pleased to report numbers are up and all you can focus on is the light smell of mint that lingers in the air and you know it has to be him. You feel your cheeks burn, as you desire to further explore that scent. 

 

You tell yourself it’s because you’re lonely. Your husband has just died and you haven’t really mourned.  Not fully. This is just your mind trying to work out this traumatic experience. It doesn’t mean anything. And you’ll move on from this.

 

-

 

But then you feel as though you’ve barely blinked and it’s been almost a year.  You haven’t moved on.  Instead you’ve gotten quite comfortable in your spot.  Peeta still works diligently at your leathers’ shop.  But now you’re right there next to him.  You’ve taken Gale’s spot in the two-man business and it feels right.  Your time as a housewife was never something you wished for, but Gale wanted to provide for you.

 

And now you provide for yourself.

 

In your weakest moments you’ll admit — to yourself — that the reason it feels so right has a lot to do with the blond who spends his days next to you.  The blond who’s had you waking up in mid-release due to a completely inappropriate dream. And you’re getting out of control because you think you’re starting to read far too much into things.

 

You feel butterflies whenever he gives you that playful wink from across the shop.  Forming composed sentences is nearly impossible if he’s standing too close to you. And when he’s fingers graze across your skin you’re done for.  You swear you can feel their trail for days afterwards and you find yourself wondering what his calloused fingers would feel like thrusting deep instead of you as you grasp onto his shoulder in complete abandon. 

 

Your own fingers find a rhythm against your soaked core several nights a week as you think about all the ways Peeta could bring you pleasure.  Or — even better — how you bring him to a delicious climax. 

 

It’s not until Prim comments on your behavior toward Peeta one day that you even realize it’s noticeable.  Of course you are mortified and want nothing more than to run out of the kitchen, but your younger — more open-minded — sister swears she sees this attraction as something mutual.   Mutual? Between you and a barely twenty year old?  The thought should make you squirm in discomfort, but instead you are antsy with desire.

 

But you know it can go no further. And you also don’t have the heart to fire Peeta for an attraction that is no fault of his own. So you do the only respectable option. The business is doing well and you can afford to interview for a replacement. _Your replacement._ It makes you uneasy.  You don’t like the future of a life on the outside.  You don’t relish in the idea of making money while simply overseeing the work. At least with Gale, you felt like part of you was doing what needed to be done.  But you hold the interviews anyway.

 

At first Peeta says nothing.  In fact, he is strangely silent toward you for an entire week. You try not to notice, but it’s all you think about.  You try to act normal, but when conversation doesn’t come easy you start to avoid it altogether. It angers you how he can bring you down to such a childish level.  But you allow it.  And you continue interviews.

 

The interviews are anything but successful and you begin to believe a good replacement isn’t out there.  But you’re desperate for one. 

 

Until one night you’re going over your numbers and there’s a knock at your door.  The same commanding knock from a year ago and your stomach twists.  You know who it is going to be and you’re caught between anger and excitement.  Angry with yourself because you shouldn’t be this consumed by someone.  Excited _because you are._

 

You’ve barely opened the door before Peeta lets himself in.  He looks every bit a reckless man.  His eyes are wild and his breathing seems labored.  He must have run all the way from the Seam and you guess it’s because it’s so late. The rumors would be merciless, but right now you’re not sure you care. 

 

 “You can’t do this to me, Katniss.  It’s not fair.” He demands as you shut the door, tightening your hold on the old bathrobe you wear. You want to say something, but he gives you no time to speak. “You must know how I feel about you and — and honestly I think you feel it to.”

 

He’s stepping closer and you instinctively back up. You’re so close to the wall you can almost feel its presence against you.  Peeta doesn’t seem phased and he’s still searching your face for answers.

 

“I never intended for it to go this far — I didn’t intend on _any_ of it. I was going to walk away — but then you started working in the shop and suddenly I couldn’t imagine _not_ waking up and spending my days with you.” He runs his fingers through his hair and your fingers twitch, wishing to do the same. “I know your argument, but I swear to god, Katniss, if you bring up age even once…”

 

He trails off and you think he’s waiting for you to push back.  To argue. _To be the goddamn adult_.  He’s testing you.  And if you were thinking even semi-logically you would have several age-related arguments, but right now you’re in some kind of trance and it revolves around the gorgeously worked up blond standing in your entryway. 

 

“I’m in love with you.” Peeta declares as though he’s breathing his last, haggard breath.  He drops his hands to his sides in defeat. “I’m twenty years old and I’m completely fucking in love with you.”

 

The pause between you is loaded and you realize you’re holding your breath.  You can feel your heartbeat pulsing through your veins.  The air in your house feels like its weighing you down. You know you must look totally surprised because Peeta’s once serious face looks amused as he takes a slow step forward. 

  
This time you don’t step back.  Instead you let your hands fall to your sides and you know that also allows your robe to fall open as well.  And you’re hardly wearing anything at all.  You should be ashamed of how brazen you’re being, but atop the uncertainty that roams around your mind sits a firm feeling of not only excitement but also bliss. A sense of bliss you haven’t felt in years; a feeling that only comes from something that’s good for you.

 

“Peeta…” You manage to breath out before he’s stepping forward and capturing your lips in a starving kiss.

 

You feel his calloused fingertips through the thin fabric of your nightshirt as he pulls you flesh against him. The cool, rough material of his jacket presses against you and sends a new fire through you. You instantly move to deepen the kiss you’ve desired for so long.  Your lips part and your tongue is met with his.  He tastes like the mint you’ve always notices lingers around him and something that you can’t quite distinguish, but is distinctly Peeta. 

 

You grip his biceps only for a moment before you’re reaching to push off the now seemingly offensive jacket of his. His warm fingers drop from you only long enough to allow the article of clothing to be forgotten on the floor of your entry way.  When his hands are back on you they find a path of their own and remove your bathrobe easily.

 

The night air sends a chill to your spine, but it’s Peeta’s fingertips ghosting across your bare collarbone that causes goose bumps across your flesh.  His lips soon follow the direction his fingers.  The warmth of his tongue as he nips at your skin causes you to gasp and he pulls you against him once more, but you’re still reaching for him.  You make simple work of the button on his pants. Your mouth literally waters when you feel the bulge against your palm.

 

Peeta hisses against your neck when you grip it experimentally through his pants.  You feel his fingers tangle the material of your nightshirt at the small of your back and you rub against him in response.  Your hips have of mind of their own as they press farther against him, grinding lightly.  When he bites just below your ear the moan you release is a mixture of surprise and pleasure.

 

One of his hands holds you tight while the other makes bold work of pulling your nightshirt higher on your thigh. Your heart stops when he reaches high enough on your bare hip to realize there is no other barrier between you and him. The moment seems to last as you both pause your once frantic movements.  Peeta pulls his head back to look you in the eye and in the moonlight you see your own emotions mirrored in his expression. 

 

His eyes are dark with desire, but they are starting to cloud with uncertainty.  You feel a lump start to form in your throat and your heart thudding against your chest fills your ears.  This isn’t how it should be.  You shouldn’t be nearly naked in your entryway with a nineteen-year-old boy clinging to you as though you’re the first drop of water in a desert.   Peeta shouldn’t be expressing his love for you in the hushed tone of night because the world just isn’t accepting of such a thing.

 

You wait for the shame to overtake you. You wait for the pit of guilt to nearly swallow you whole.  Time seems to stand still as you fight your inner demons and Peeta just waits. It’s as if he understands, or maybe he’s doing the very thing.  Soon guilt will push you two apart, you just know it.  And so you wait. 

 

But the overwhelming shame never comes; the desire coursing through your veins doesn’t fade.

 

Slowly you reach forward, letting your hand come to rest of Peeta’s cheek.  He leans against it, his eyes fluttering closed for a brief moment.  You smile at the innocence there and once again you’re completely swept away by him. 

 

This time when your lips connect the kiss isn’t fueled by frantic desire, but instead it’s a passion that’s evolved over time. It’s a patient kind of burn that speaks volumes between you.  Peeta’s hand cups the back of your head while you busy yourself with pulling his shirt up. It doesn’t take long and he understands, breaking apart from your lips long enough to once again shed another item of clothing. 

 

Your eyes roam over his bare chest hungrily and the smirk Peeta wears right before his lips descend on yours once more doesn’t go unnoticed.  And you actually softly laugh before you feel his fingertips run over your harden nipples through the material of your nightshirt.  Your laughter easily turns into a moan against his lips.

 

Peeta takes your moment of quick ecstasy to easily reach behind your thighs and lift you up against him.  Your legs wrap around his waist easily as your arms instinctively go around his neck.  He must not have much of a plan after his impulsive move, because he just holds you there and lets you kiss him until you’re both utterly breathless.

 

“Table.” You manage to breath against his lips and he’s moving you both toward the mess of a kitchen table not far from where you stand. 

 

Before he’s even gotten you completely sat down atop the surface, you’re already reaching between you to further remove his trousers.  He’s reaching for the buttons of your shirt, undoing enough so that he can push the material aside and lavish your breasts without barrier. 

 

When his lips attach to a rosy nipple you feel your eyes nearly role to the back of your head. Your fingers abandon their post at his waistband and tangle through his curls.  Your legs are still wrapped around his waist and you use them to tug him closer.  You nearly yelp when your soaked core comes in contact with the rough material of his pants. Your hips rub against him, craving any kind of friction that will allow you to break up the tension that’s suddenly all but overwhelming. 

 

He groans against your chest and his fingers dig into your hips with bruising pressure.  Your mouth falls open in a silent moan as you continue to grind press against him. Your actions remind you of a starved woman and you’re sure that’s exactly what you are.

 

As his mouth tightly sucks your nipple you feel his hips pull away just enough to allow his fingers to press against your core. Your eyes shut tightly as you feel him softly explore your heat.  You should be ashamed at how soaked you are for him, but you open your legs wider. His thumb rubs lazy circles over your clit and you feel him enter you with one finger.  His digit dips in and out slowly, testing you. His gesture is meant to be for care, but it does nothing for you now.  You’re maddened by the barely there sensation that does nothing but build your tension.

 

“More.” You ground out as you grip his shoulders and push your hips against his hand. 

 

Peeta understands and soon he’s added another finger into your dripping pussy and you see stars.  It only takes three thrusts of his fingers and you’re coming undone. Your mind goes blank and your body stills against him.  The fire inside you explodes into one of your most intense orgasms and all you can do is cling to him as you chant his name like a prayer.

 

Slowly you come back to reality and open your eyes to see a gorgeously disheveled looking Peeta watching you with an expression of awe, but his lips are curled into such a content smug look that you’re set ablaze once more.  You push yourself up to connect your lips with his in a sloppy, passionate kiss. And while your lips devour his, your hands finish the task they had started so long ago.  Finally he is freed from his trousers and you pull away to bask in his fully naked form.

 

For the second time tonight, your mouth waters at the sight of nude Peeta looking entirely turned on.  His cock stands at attention between you. You reach out and gently stroke the hardened member, reveling in the velvet texture.  Your thumb flicks over the head to rub the drop of pre-cum that sits atop it. 

 

“Holy _fuck_ , Katniss.” Peeta’s eyes slam shut and his hips buck against your hand. His hands grip the table beside you and you watch him for only an instant before your lips attach to the side of his neck.

 

When he lets out a whimpering moan you know your attempt at foreplay is going to be extremely short because you want nothing more than Peeta buried deep inside you. 

 

You pull away from him long enough to adjust your position on the table.  You move closer to the edge while your legs wrap him closer to you.  You’re only partially aware of Peeta’s surprised expression when you move your hand to help position him at your entrance. You experimentally rub the head of his cock against your drenched folds and you both moan at the sensation.

 

Your forehead moves to rest against Peeta’s as your hand snakes around his neck.  The aftermath of your first orgasm still lingers on you, it only heightens the sensations you’re feeling and you all but burst at the slightest of contact.

 

“Fuck me.” You mumble, leaning forward to bite down softly on his bottom lip. 

 

Without hesitation, Peeta thrust into you deeply and you’re completely lost.  Your head falls back as your hands grasp for purchase on his shoulders.  Peeta’s thrusts are deep and uneven.  The coupling isn’t a smooth one, but it’s the most passion you’ve ever felt. 

 

When you’re finally able to open your eyes, the sight before you threatens to send you into your second orgasm. Peeta grips your hips possessively as he thrusts hard into you.  He’s lost any control he once had and you’re simply along for the pleasurable ride. Glancing down between your bodies sends another wave of desire through you.  Watching Peeta’s cock move in and out of your soaked heat is a whole other level of pleasure and you can’t help but reach down and rub your swollen clit.

 

“Look at you fuck me, Peeta.” Your words are brazen and new to your lips, but so is this much passion.  Peeta’s eyes widen for a moment and you see how his stomach muscles tighten in that familiar way.

 

You reach up then, both of your hands wrap around his neck, pressing yourself against him.  The new sensation of your sensitive nipples brushing against his chest makes your toes curl. Your hips move in tune with his as you grind against each other.  His hands gripping your ass and holding you to the point you’re not even sure you’re still sitting atop the table anymore.

 

The new friction against your clit is enough to make you scream out in your second release and just as you reach your peak you feel Peeta slip out of you and his hot cum land atop your stomach. He’s still pumping against you slightly and you feel your clit throb with release. 

 

Your breathing is heavy and your skin is starting to feel cool with the new layer of sweat you’ve developed. Peeta clings to you and your chests heave together in silence. 

 

And again you’re expecting the shame to overtake you. You expect the guilt to wash over you like a tidal wave.   You’re dreading the moment you’ll want nothing more than to push him away and forget this night ever happened.  You’re afraid of the sorrow you’ll feel for using someone so full of life. 

 

But the shame and all that accompanies it never comes.

 

Instead, you slowly pull away to look at the beautiful man in front of you.  His curls stick to his forehead and you can’t help but smile contently as you tilt your head and press your lips to his.  This kiss isn’t fueled by passion or desire, though.  This kiss is fueled with longing and promise. It’s a kiss between lovers that expect much more together.

 

Peeta’s arms hold you tight, and a giggle escapes you feel the sticky sensation of his cum now all over him as well. At first Peeta freezes in concern, but then the sensation must him as well because his lips curl into a smile against yours.

 

“I guess our next stop is the shower.”

-

 

The conversation you planned on starting with his name so much earlier that night doesn’t happen until much later. And instead of it taking place in your entryway it takes place in your bedroom while his lips linger over your own and your fingertips lazily draw circles on his heated flesh.

 

And you don’t feel any shame.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Come find me over on Tumblr (fourfinick)!


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